


Cocksure and Not Enough Gun-shy

by siennavie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Gunplay, M/M, Manhandling, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siennavie/pseuds/siennavie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for <a href="http://spnkink-meme.livejournal.com/75258.html?thread=26999802#t26999802">this</a> spnkink-meme prompt.</p><p>Dean makes a reckless move on a hunt. Back at the motel, Sam calls him out on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cocksure and Not Enough Gun-shy

**Author's Note:**

> Fastest thing I've ever written...and honestly it probably shows. But it's complete! Un-betaed and written in the dark recesses of night. *prays* Please let this be coherent.

“That was fuckin’ awesome, Sammy.” Dean bounces into their motel room with a grin stretched ear to ear. “You shoulda seen its face when I jumped him.” He whistles and arcs his hand through the air simulating his flight path. “I was like motherfucking Chuck Norris,” he crows, while making a beeline to the can. He’s got an emergency and he’ll be damned if Sasquatch finds some reason to hog it first. On the way, he quickly shrugs off his jacket and dumps it with his weapons on the table.

Dean doesn’t bother closing the door before jerking his zipper down. He groans lewdly with relief when the first trickle hits the can. “Nnnnngh. Duuude, remind me to never get the jumbo sized Icee again,” he calls out to his brother. “Thought I was gonna burst by the time we took the bastard down. Woulda been a lot quicker if you had taken the shot when I told you so. And about that, it’s your turn playing bait next time. I know I’m prettier and all, but I’m sure some monster out there wouldn’t mind your girlishly good looks.”

He zips up, flushes, and washes his hands. They’re not too dirty amazingly. The bastard didn’t bleed, just burst into a pile of ashes. A quick and easy cleanup – Dean’s favorite. He picks at some remaining dirt under his fingernails as he exits the bathroom…

And is stunned when he looks up to see a gun pointed at his face. His gun. In Sam’s hands. And Sam looks deadly serious. Both safeties are off, and Sam’s arms are locked and steady, his eyes beaded narrowly at Dean.

His brother’s possessed, has to be.

“Christo,” he murmurs, but Sam doesn’t flinch.

“Not possessed, Dean.”

“Yeah, well you can’t be my brother. What are you, a shapeshifter? Leviathan?” he spits, even as he doubts it himself. The cut on Sam’s forearm is still bleeding red. The silver protection charm they wore for this case is still dangling around his neck. Plus, he’s been with Sam the whole time since they ganked the monster, so it’d be difficult for anything to have pulled the ol’ switcheroo.

He doesn’t know what’s going on, only knows that he needs to get the gun out of his face. The rest can be sorted out afterwards.

When Sam shakes his head in response, Dean uses that moment to make a grab for his pistol. He gets his hand around the barrel, but Sam doesn’t pull away as he expects. Instead, he feels a hand on his back, roughly pushing him forward, using Dean’s own momentum to swing him around to slam face-first into the wall. Dean barely turns his head in time so that his cheek, and not his nose, takes the blow. Either way, he still sees stars and loses his grip on the gun.

Sam pins him with his left wrist high up on his back - to the point where Dean’s eyes begin to water from the pain - a leg thrust between his, and a powerful thigh pressed up against the curve of his ass. The gun reappears a few inches from his face. It’s pointed upwards this time, but the barrel gleams wickedly, mockingly, in the lamplight.

“What the fuck, man?!” He squirms, trying to free himself, but Sam just puts more weight and Dean groans, not entirely from pain he’s ashamed to admit. Sam doesn’t get rough like this often, but when he does…Dean’s dick twitches traitorously in his jeans. He stops resisting, at least temporarily, and Sam lets up just a little bit.

“Don’t you like this, Dean?” That hits a little too close to home. More so, because Sam’s voice is quiet, but sharp as steel and hot in Dean’s ear. Dean stiffens, trying not to give anything away. “You enjoy getting off on danger? Throwing yourself in front of bullets, just dying to sacrifice yourself.”

Is that what this is about? Dean rolls his eyes, “Dammit, Sam–“, but it quickly turns into a wince when Sam presses forward again.

“Shut up and listen. _You_ decided you were gonna play bait, not me – you didn’t even tell me first. _You_ wanted me to shoot when you still in the line of fire. _You_ jumped off the freaking balcony, and you’re just fucking lucky that the dumpster didn’t have anything sharp or hard enough to break your bones.”

Dean grimaces then, because the dumpster part was kinda true. He had just followed in their target’s footsteps blindly…and the movies always made it look easy. But he bristles at the rest of Sam’s accusations.

“I know what I’m doing, Sam. I was perfectly safe and there wasn’t exactly time for me to call you and say, Hey Sammy, here’s the new plan. There was a chance. I took it. End of story.”

Sam yanks him and flips him around so quickly that Dean doesn’t even have time to process it before his back is hitting the bed. Sam’s on him in a second, sitting on his torso, legs and knees pinning down an arm to each side. He tries to buck Sam off, but he’s at an awkward angle on the mattress and can’t get his feet in a good position for leverage. Somehow, Sam also manages to add an extra fifty pounds of pressure when Dean begins to struggle, knocking the breath out of his lungs.

“Fuc–“ he wheezes, but is cut off by the sudden cold press of steel to his lips. Dean freezes, heart pounding against his ribcage. Dean eyes the deactivated safeties fearfully, willing Sam to get the hint, but Sam doesn’t budge.

“Don’t you dare take chances when it comes to your life, Dean,” Sam growls. Dean thinks that's funny coming from the man who’s holding a gun to his mouth. But Sam looks a little wild-eyed, so Dean bites off the snide remark on the tip of his tongue. 

Instead he tries to order Sam to “Put the fucking gun awa–“, but a firm push of the barrel shuts him up. Sam’s eyes are hard as steel, lips a thin white line, and Dean suddenly know he’s in big trouble.

Sam looks pleased when he sees the realization in Dean’s eyes. He lifts the gun up slightly, only to turn it sideways and drag the cool metal across Dean’s lips in a parody of a caress, the grooves and etchings catching on the sensitive skin. Then Sam turns the muzzle once again to Dean’s lips, murmurs, “You love danger so much,” - emphasizes with a hard press of the barrel - “suck it.”

Dean flinches at the command, hates the way his voice shakes when he says, “Sam, don’t do this.”

The hard metal mashes his gums mercilessly against his teeth. “Suck. It.”

He tries not to move his mouth too much when he bites out a, “Screw you.”

Sam fists his hair and yanks his head back hard, until he gasps loudly and Sam thrusts the tip between his teeth. Dean looks up through wet eyes into Sam’s determined face and swallows. Dean knows he’s not winning this one any time soon. Giving in would make this end quicker so he opens his mouth, lets the barrel slide in a little further.

Sam pulls his hair again when Dean stays that way for too long. Dean tentatively slides his tongue along the underside of the barrel. He chokes as he swallows down the bitter taste of gun oil and even more bitter gunpowder.

Sam looks unsympathetic, just watches him expectantly.

Dean licks more firmly the second time – the taste isn’t as bad now – and is surprised to see Sam’s eyes darkening. Dean’s dick jerks automatically in response; he curses his brain for being wired to Sammy in that fucked up way.

Sam nudges, and he opens his mouth wider, lets Sam push the barrel deeper. Dean’s mesmerized by the way his brother’s eyes widen, breath quickening, as more and more of the cold slick metal disappears. When Dean seals his lips around the hard metal, Sam looks more than a little stunned and a lot turned on. Sam’s gaze is locked on his lips, and Dean feels drool trickle down his chin when Sam draws the gun back and begins to slowly fuck his mouth.

Sam’s hips begin to grind in circles, in tempo with the slip slide of the barrel over his tongue. Dean finds himself hardening at the sight of Sam above him, his little brother getting himself off on dominating and using his big brother.

Sam removes the hand from his hair in favor of rubbing his crotch through his jeans. As Sam’s breathing picks up speed, so does Dean’s and he finds himself pushing up with his hips searching for friction instead of taking the opportunity to break free. He finds no release though, but it’s obvious Sam gets his when the gun stops moving and Sam stiffens, a hitched moan falling from his lips.

When Sam fails to remove himself or the gun from Dean for several long seconds, Dean whines around the metal, half indignation and half frustration.

Sam’s head jerks up at the sound. He looks a little guilty when his eyes meet Dean’s, but he doesn’t say anything as he pulls the gun from between Dean’s lips and climbs off his body. Dean groans at the pins and needles in his arms. There goes his plan to immediately punch Sam now that he’s free…But give him another minute and he’ll be ready.

He watches Sam move away to the table, dismantle the gun. The magazine clatters hollowly onto the tabletop. Then Sam walks stiffly to the front door, stops just shy of the threshold, turns and looks at him with wet, earnest eyes, says “I can’t lose you, Dean,” before stepping out into the bitter night.


End file.
